Blurry Memories
by JellybeanThief
Summary: "If Haymitch were honest with himself, he couldn't remember the first time he saw the girl who would become the girl on fire."  Haymitch's perspective on events surrounding the 74th Hunger Games
1. Chapter 1

Blurry Memories

By Jellybean Thief

Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins created a fascinating world filled with independent and interesting characters. They aren't mine, and I promise to put these ones back where I found them when I'm done.

Part One

If Haymitch were honest with himself, he couldn't remember the first time he saw the girl who would become the girl on fire.

When he thought it through, it was likely he'd encountered the grey-eyed girl at the Hob from time to time, she trading squirrels or birds, he trying to talk Ripper into an extra bottle or three of the rotgut she brewed. The booze had a way of fuzzing your vision and blurring the faces of the people around, which was a good thing as far as Haymitch was concerned. But it also meant that if the Everdeen girl were Ripper's assistant herself, he wouldn't have recognized her when she stepped from the crowd to take her sister's place.

And that was the moment Haymitch had to admit he couldn't remember, even if he tried.

The record would show that District 12's only victor was drunk that day. No surprise: he was drunk most days. The only problem with this strategy, as far as he could tell, was that while the white fire fuzzed most faces out, it seemed to make that damned Capitol escort - Effie Tinker, Trenchant, something like that - louder and more clearly defined. At least, Haymitch hoped that was the case, because he couldn't imagine a world where the sharp-voiced pink lady his brain produced was actually a reduced version of reality.

So the only thing he remembered from the Reaping was Effie Termagant's voice: first summoning a Primrose Everdeen, then commotion, then a request from Effie for applause. Applause for a volunteer.

That got Haymitch's attention. He liked that, actually. Liked a girl so stupid that she'd volunteer for death. It would make her easier to write off when the time came.

Yes, he liked her.

The first five years after his victory, Haymitch had worked to teach the kids strategy and gamesmanship; had fought to bring them home. But ultimately, Haymitch decided that a different strategy would be better for his own long-term stability. These days, he avoided the tributes as much as possible, and then, in the last possible moments, he sat them down. He told the tributes that there was no reason that District 12 couldn't have another victor: it was really just luck, after all. That their best hope would be to get to the cornucopia as quickly as they could; to get a weapon, a pack, or a tool to help them survive. To win.

He told them to run fast.

He told himself that it was a kindness.

Usually they didn't even make it to the cornucopia. Only twice in the past decade had they made it out of the bloodbath. And that's when things got ugly. Say what you would about the District 12 tributes under Haymitch Abernathy, they didn't starve or drown or freeze. They didn't puke or shit or seize their way towards death on national television, courtesy of a nasty infection or poisoned plant. The tributes of District 12 went down fighting, and they went down fast.

It was a kindness.

But this girl...this _volunteer_. Haymitch remembered thinking - right before he must have toppled off the stage - that she would go down faster than most.

He didn't remember falling. And he didn't remember _her_.

His memory scrolled forward nearly a full day before it could produce a reliable image of her face. The tributes, frustrated with his studied indifference, had jumped him.

Perhaps that was an overstatement, but not by much. The boy - Haymitch had chosen not to remember his name, dubbing him instead, simply, "48" - had knocked Haymitch's breakfast aperitif out of his hand. The girl - "47" - nearly pinned his hand to the table. For a moment, he was back in the Games, blinded with panic and terror, recognizing that the time had come to kill or be killed.

But the knife was buried in a table, rather than bouncing off a forcefield, and his mind reoriented itself. Not the Games. Rather, not his Games. A different Games, forty-six dead tributes later.

With not one, but _two_ tributes who now seemed determined to fight for life whether he told them to or not.

And so, Haymitch looked at his latest casualties. Alcohol-soaked though his brain was, it had felt the moment was worth enough to preserve as a memory.

Handsome, both of them. The boy, well-fed and stocky. His eyes were clear and blue; guileless. Trustworthy. Capable. Kind. Still innocent. Haymitch could think of a few District sponsors who had indicated an interest in such children before. Who could be interested in making an investment, with the understanding of certain quid pro quos should the tribute return a victor.

And the girl.

Grey eyes. The look of the Seam, but without the pallor that indicated a life already given to the mines. She stood straight, and while she was too thin by Capital standards, she was well-formed and better-fed than most of her peers. She was small - probably a good six inches shorter than the female tribute from District 1 - but just as clearly fast, resourceful, and good with a knife.

Not pretty - too strong for a simple word like pretty, and still too innocent to be called beautiful - but something about the way those grey eyes met Haymitch's made him grudgingly admit that she was...compelling.

And brave, in the way that only the truly hopeless could be.

This didn't mean much, of course - 24 went in, 1 came out. A lot of brave, compelling kids would be seen in the arena sky over the next month. Supposedly, that's what made it entertaining viewing. After all, it wouldn't be nearly as interesting if the tributes just sat around and sang kumbaya as they waited to die - no, no, the Capitol wanted to see gutsy kids doing penance for an act of rebellion now nearly four generations old.

"Compelling" would only help if she had a mentor who was more skilled at lining up sponsors. Who'd even tried to give a shit over the past 20 or so years.

And "brave" would only matter inasmuch as it determined how quickly she'd run towards her fate.

And headlong she'd have to run. He could tell just by looking at her that otherwise the girl would cling tenaciously to life as long as she could - giving her district, her family, Haymitch himself - a taste of what hope could be, only to snuff it out brutally when the inevitable happened.

So he stuck to the party line. Told the kids that if they didn't interfere with his drinking, he'd stay sober enough to train them.

Because he was planning to train them to run.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: With one drabble-ish exception, Blurred Memories is my first fanfic in almost two decades. Thank you to those who have already commented or added me to your story alerts. Fanfic fans are always so warm and supportive!

I used to have a cardinal rule that I never ever ever hit "publish" until the whole thing was finished. With this story, I broke that rule, mostly because I was super-excited about the first chapter - which I thought could function as a stand-alone - but also because felt secure enough in the story's outline and structure that it would just be a few more days until the whole thing was done. Of course, as soon as I did that, the structure I had been so secure about started to shift into something else. So it's a little concerning to try and feel my way through a piece that is growing increasingly interesting to me, and yet know that with every update, I have less and less flexibility about the characters' development. I plan to update regularly, but am simply making a plea for understanding if I'm a bit slow! (Also - anyone else have this experience?)

As always, the characters belong to Suzanne Collins. I promise to play nicely with them. By which I mean "no canon was harmed in the making of this 'fix."

-JellybeanThief

Chapter Two

Haymitch didn't remember the moment when the girl on fire first earned her name, either. There was no shame in that - no lost memory, no sense that he should know something he did not. He chose not to see the presentations, as he chose not to see them every year.

And of course, he chose to not do that with a drink by his side.

Also, because it was the Capitol, he wasn't drinking alone.

Chaff was the victor the year before Haymitch's Games. District 11 didn't have a large pool of victors, but at the Quarter Quell, they had three more than District 12. So the youngest and most inexperienced one was assigned to 12's tributes - to learn the business of mentoring in what the Capitol escort had cheerily described as a "low-stakes environment."

There had been a female mentor from District 2 as well, but it was obvious early on that her advice was meant simply to secure victory for her district once again. So Haymitch and the others ignored her.

Chaff, though, honestly tried. He had compassion for his four charges, and wanted to give them the best chances he could, even if the best chances still weren't great.

And somehow, Haymitch came home. Not really through anything that Chaff had done - Haymitch was the first Victor who had received exactly zero sponsors - but Haymitch remained grateful, and the two became friends of a sort. As much as you could be friends with someone living in a different district, and therefore with whom contact - outside of an annual trip to the Capitol - was forbidden

In the early days, they'd met for dinner before the presentations, and - by unspoken agreement - reconvened to raise a glass each time one of their tributes fell. Four years after Haymitch's Games, while memorializing the first fallen tribute of District 11, the "raise a glass" session had turned into a full-on drinking binge; the next morning they were both too hungover to pay attention to the ring, and their remaining tributes had all died stupidly. Not that they could have done much - watching later, it was clear that the deaths were unexpected and immediate, but to Haymitch at least, not being there to witness the deaths in realtime seemed like a failure in itself.

That was the beginning of the end. These days, they just drank. Sometimes Chaff roused himself enough in the early part of the games to mentor his kids. Sometimes he didn't.

The bar was noisy and the television screen above the bartender was playing the presentations in the background. The two men purposefully sat with their backs to it. They sat in silence for the first hour - there was no family for either to catch the other up on, and Haymitch guessed that a recitation of Chaff's days would be strikingly similar to his own: "Woke up. Had a drink. Realized I was almost out of drink. Went to the Tradepost, bought more drink. Drank it. Went to sleep." Maybe throw an occasional meal or difficult crap in there, to spice things up.

And of course, they didn't want to talk about the obvious topic at hand.

Well, maybe "hand" was a poor choice of words, given Chaff's infirmity.

Chaff was the one who finally broke, though.

"How are yours, this year?" he asked, once the first round had been consumed and the second was well on its way.

Haymitch shrugged. "Brave," he said. "Stupid. Yours?"

Chaff smiled. "Is smart better?" he asked. "I dunno. The girl's young. Mincemeat. But the boy might have a shot."

"If he's so great, why are you holding down a barstool instead of at the presentations where you belong?"

"He told me he was going to handle himself on his own. He thinks pretty much anyone else can take a flying leap." The darker man took a deep draught of his drink and then smiled at Haymitch. "Thresh reminds me a lot of another tribute I mentored, once upon a time."

Haymitch laughed. "Well, then, it sounds like you've got it sewn up. How about we all just go home and get a start on next year?"

Chaff snorted. "Yeah. Let's just tell the Capitol that we got it all figured out, and have saved them the trouble of having a Games at all. See what they say."

'You do that. I'm going to stay right here, with my drink."

Chaff smiled for a moment, but then got serious. "Would that we could."

The two sat in companionable silence a little bit longer before Chaff started in again. "Really, Haymitch - your tributes? That girl? The volunteer? What's that about?"

"She's hardheaded and stubborn. Nearly mugged me on the train to get me to pay attention to them."

"And?"

"And I told them I would stay sober enough to train them."

"Actually train them? Or train them like you usually do?"

"I have my priorities," Haymitch responded raising his glass in salute.

"Now, that's just wrong," Chaff said, despite the fact that he laughed and clinked Haymitch's glass with his own. "You've got a volunteer, and you're not even going to let her put on a little show?"

"Not a chance. She volunteered, but I call the shots from here on out." He drained his second drink and signalled the bartender for a refill. "Of course, she's so obstinate that she'll probably do the exact opposite of whatever I say, so you might still get something from her."

"She might surprise you, Haymitch. You've been surprised before."

Haymitch shook his head. "You might have been; I haven't."

Chaff rolled his eyes and was about to respond when something caught his attention - everyone but them had been watching the TV, cheering and yelling as favorite tributes swept into view. Now, suddenly, the room's tenor changed, flattened, slowed. Quieted. Chaff turned to look.

"Haymitch."

Haymitch ignored him.

"Haymitch - you should see this."

Slowly, admittedly already a little buzzed, Haymitch rotated on his stool, and by the time he got in view of the TV, the girl was gone.

And the whole room was filled with chatter again, but now, only of the girl who was on fire and the boy who held her hand. Chaff turned to look at him. "Good stylist," he said.

"New talent learning the business in a low-stakes environment," Haymitch offered with a smile.

Chaff shook his head at his onetime charge. "Listen to the room, Haymitch. It's more than that. People were already talking about the volunteer from 12. Now they're buzzing about this girl on fire. You might have something here."

"And so might you," the other man shot back. "We can't both bring them home."

"And most likely, neither of us will," Chaff responded. "Look at District 2 - that boy could break your neck with his bare hands. The girl, too, actually. But don't we owe it to ours to try? What would you have done if I'd have given up on you before you even started?"

"Same thing I ended up doing," Haymitch growled. "Winning."

Chaff shook his head. "Not without hope, Haymitch," he said. "Not without hope."

Haymitch looked back up at the TV, finally catching a glimpse of the District 12 tributes. Chaff was right: the stylists had done their jobs well for once. No sexy coal miners this year. Instead, they looked like gods rising from the flames. Classic. Heroic. Victorious.

The linked hands were a nice touch, too - they made the tributes more accessible. Human. Good for sponsors, yes, but also a subtle dig to anyone in the Capitol who had somehow missed the fact that actual children with actual feelings were being sent to die in the Arena.

Haymitch just hoped whoever came up with that idea knew what he was doing - it would be hard to forgive those entwined hands when the same hands were circled around each others' necks.

Haymitch shook his head. "Chaff, a little hope is a dangerous thing." And with that, he drained his glass. He had about 90 minutes before he had to meet his fiery tributes for dinner. It was time to regain at least a semblance of sobriety, if only so he wouldn't have to deal with an accusatory glare from #48. Forty-seven was halfway to doing as Chaff's tribute had, and telling her mentor to shove off, but 48 took the drinking as a personal affront. And while the kid was already as good as dead, his angry glares spoiled the meals. And even if he hated everything else the Capitol stood for, Haymitch had to admit the food was pretty good


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: In writing the next two sections, I've happened upon a pairing I have yet to see in the archives…Cinna and Haymitch?_

_It's not the story I'm telling here, and canon indicates that Haymitch, at least, is attracted to women, but the chemistry feels like it could be...interesting. Two smart, passionate men who care a little too deeply for the people they love…start out deeply distrustful of one another, but are ultimately united by a common hatred of the Capitol..._

_So if anyone's looking for a plot bunny, I'm just throwing it out there. Use and enjoy. :-)_

_As always, standard disclaimers about intellectual property and reserved rights apply._

Blurred Memories, part three  
>By JellybeanThief<p>

Numbers 47 and 48 had just closed their bedroom doors behind them when Effie turned on Haymitch.

"And just where were you today?" she hissed, stabbing a finger at his chest. "For the first time in _years_ you actually have two tributes with potential. With abilities. With _manners_! And you just disappear!"

She was trying to sound threatening, but the only thing frightening about the moment was Haymitch's realization that all those years, the alcohol really had been a modifier on the experience that was Effie Tourniquet.

Staying sober enough to mollify 48 was going to be a real problem.

"I was fine, sweetheart," he said coolly, knowing that she hated the sobriquet as much as every other woman he used it on. "I saw our little flaming tributes just fine." He nodded to the two stylists, sitting across from him at the dinner table. "Thank you coal miner thing was old when they dressed _me_ as one."

The two inclined their heads, accepting the praise, but clearly having reservations about the lone victor from District 12."

"They. Were. A. _Triumph_!" Effie exclaimed. "Cinna and Portia worked miracles in the City Circle, and you weren't there to capitalize on their success!" She turned to the two stylists herself. "But, I'm sure with the amazing talent you displayed tonight, you're sure to have your pick of districts next year!"

The female stylist - Portia? - smiled faintly this time, but the man raised one eyebrow.

"We had our pick _this_ year, Effie," he said mildly.

Haymitch had to chuckle at that a little - at the fact that the young man had one-upped the escort, and at the look on Effie's face as she realized that even some first-year stylists were offered their choice of districts, while, five years in, she was still assigned to a district she loathed.

"Well," she finally offered, lamely, "next year you might want to choose a district where your skills will have more use - I can't secure deals with sponsors, and the only person who can was off giving a barstool a reason to exist!"

And suddenly, all eyes in the room were back on Haymitch. Since the kids were gone, and it would piss off Effie, he poured himself a drink.

"I was meeting with some of the other mentors," he said calmly. "Discussing strategy."

"And what would that strategy be, Haymitch?" The question came from Cinna.

"Stay alive." He smirked at them as he downed his drink and topped it up again.

"Stay alive," Effie repeated flatly. "Stay alive? That's all you've come up with? Haymitch Abernathy, you are the worst. Just the absolute worst."

"It could use some work, as strategies go," Cinna admitted, "but it beats telling them to run straight into the bloodbath, right?" As he said that, the stylist looked directly at the mentor, and Haymitch felt his stomach drop. Cinna knew.

Putting tributes in the path of death was, obviously, not against the rules - the only legal repercussions of something like that came if it were revealed that a mentor was making illegal side bets on his tributes' lifespans, and therefore profiteering from insider trading. But if the gamesboard learned of Haymitch's strategy and _couldn't_ find evidence of such behavior, it would actually be worse - because it would imply that perhaps Haymitch didn't take his role in the Games seriously, or enjoy it with the appropriate gusto. That would attract the government's attention - a "favor" Haymitch had successfully been avoiding for nearly two decades, now.

"Well," he said, trying to cover any reaction that the other man had might have noticed, "it's sure a fair sight better than 'hold hands and hope for the best.'"

Cinna raised an eyebrow at him across the table.

"Oh, I _liked_ that they held hands," Effie chirped. "They looked so much more approachable than the others. Like they were having _fun_ up there. And that's so important. I mean, none of the tributes seem to appreciate how much is being _done_ for them in the week leading up to the Games. They're exposed to so many _opportunities_ that they just wouldn't have had if they'd stayed home. And I think it's very important that they show the appropriate appreciation for it. Our tributes were the only ones seeming to have a good time, and I'm sure it made a difference to the sponsors."

Haymitch, Cinna, and Portia stared at the pink woman. She looked back at them. "Well, it's true!" She gestured at Cinna and Portia. "You don't know - you haven't seen the Districts! They don't have any of this! Running water...or proper food...or beautiful clothes, or...or...prep teams and stylists!"

"Yes, yes," said Haymitch, suddenly furious. "The districts are complete backwaters. I can't imagine who would choose to stay home with their families, friends and everything they've ever known rather than experience the finest of the Capitol for three or four _amazing_ days before becoming part of the spectacle themselves, Effie."

The escort's face was covered with a layer of thick paint, but Haymitch would have bet anything that underneath it she was pink enough to match her dress. "There's no need to be condescending," she said. "Yes, there's a tragic aspect to all of this, but that can't be helped. This is their service to their community, to the families and friends you claim they love so much. The least they can do is put a good face on it - after all, any one of them could be the next victor!" She gestured at Haymitch triumphantly - "like you!"

"Yes, I'm sure every kid in District 12 dreams of being the next Haymitch Abernathy," he drawled. The alcohol was finally starting to kick in, to blur the edges of Effie's accent, her wig, all her sharp pointy pieces. If he felt like it, he could probably skate along like this for hours, nursing a drink and seeming to be functional while the world faded to a soft cocoon, but he didn't want to. Not now. He finished the drink he was holding, and headed back to the bar to refill once again.

"Haymitch, stop." The words, harsh and forceful, were Cinna's. "Effie, you too." Haymitch turned around to find the stylist staring the escort down. "This isn't helping our tributes. And we really don't have time to be concerned with anything else right now." Effie nodded once, and she composed herself as Cinna's gaze shifted to Haymitch. "Put. Your glass. Down," he ordered, and handed the other man a glass of water. "If you must drink something, if it's a habit that not being able to do so will distract you from the work at hand, drink this. You've consumed enough booze in the past 20 minutes to be comfortably inebriated for the rest of the evening, but we can't have you slipping into incoherence. You're the only person in this room who knows these kids personally, and the only person here to have experienced an Arena firsthand. We need you."

"And what if I say no dice?"

"I'll tie you to your chair until you sober up. And only _then_ will we start our strategy meeting, and only once we're done will I untie you."

Haymitch eyed the other man.

"We have all night, Haymitch."

He was small and slim, but Haymitch didn't think he was bluffing, and it was clear that he younger man could take him easily.

"Fine," Haymitch said shortly. "I'll sit."

"Good," said Cinna. "Thank you." Both men took their seats, and Cinna looked around at the table. "Now, we have a lot of work ahead of us, but the three things we need to decide right now are: how to organize their training so that they get the most benefit from the three days, how we want them to appear to the Gamemakers, and how we plan to appeal to the sponsors."

"Well," Effie offered, "I've been telling people that if you squeeze coal enough, if you put it under enough pressure, do you know what happens? It turns into pearls! And those are our tributes. Pearls." she exclaimed. Haymitch rolled his eyes.

"I think you mean diamonds," Portia offered quietly.

"Diamonds can't turn into pearls," Effie said disdainfully. "And besides, what would be the point? That would make no sense at all!"

"No-coal. Turns to diamonds."

"Actually, it's graphite that turns into diamonds. But Portia's at least got the lore right," said Haymitch. He grinned and reached for his glass, frowning as he realized both that it was filled with water and that Cinna had indeed been right - Haymitch did rely on the glass as a prop as much as for what had been inside it.

"So, what do we know about the two of them already?" This question came from Portia, who was just as self-possessed as her partner, but seemed more comfortable taking the back seat to his leading role.

"Katniss Everdeen is District 12's first volunteer!" This came from Effie, who seemed eager to provide a correct answer. Haymitch winced. He'd avoided it until now, but he had a feeling he'd finally learned the name of Number 47.

"So, she's certifiable," he responded. "Think we can sell that?" Effie scowled at Haymitch's response, and Haymitch noticed Cinna shake his head slowly in response.

"We'll reframe that as 'brave' and 'protective,'" he suggested quietly. "What else?"

Haymitch shrugged. "Everdeen, you say? Mom's the district herbalist."

"And her father?"

"Dead. A mining accident a few years back. Took out a few men."

"Oh, that's so tragic!" Effie exclaimed. "One family struck by two tragedies so close together."

Haymitch rolled his eyes. "At least it was fast," he countered, watching Cinna's gaze sharpen. "There are a lot of slower, harder ways to die in District 12." His words brought the brainstorming conversation to a sudden halt, and he grinned at their discomfiture as he swigged his water.

"Haymitch," Cinna asked, "what about Peeta? Peeta Mellark?"

"Oh," Haymitch said, chuckling to himself "you mean number 48? That's Pol Mellark's kid. The town baker. Good man. Pity he's got the wife he does, though. She's a shrew."

"What did you call him?"

"48," said Haymitch. "He'll be my 48th dead mentee, get it? I figure the girl will go first - she's too temperamental."

Haymitch had a feeling he was saying too much even as he was speaking, but the dead silence in the room when he stopped made him wish he could take the words back. He didn't dare take another protective gulp of his water in that dead, horrible silence, but he eyed the water glass, wishing more than ever that there were something stronger in it.

"Effie, Portia," said Cinna quietly, "Could we have the room, please?"


	4. Chapter 4

First off, apologies for the silence. I hit a real-life writing deadline and put this on hold to get that done, and then had a heck of a time picking it back up again. This chapter was essentially written, but since the next two chapters have been giving me trouble, I wanted to be sure there were no major changes affecting this one before I made it public.

_(I might be looking for a beta? I'm not 100% sure - I've never actually worked with one before, but I'm getting a little insecure about the pacing here…if anyone is interested, please private message me with an explanation of what you see the beta's role as being, and how you'd like to be involved.)_

Now, where last we left things, Haymitch had slipped up and revealed his little "inside joke" nicknames for his tributes. Cinna asked Portia and Effie to leave the room. Also: All hail, Suzanne Collins. :)

* * *

><p>Blurred Memories, chapter 4<p>

By Jellybean Thief

* * *

><p>The stylist and the victor stared at each other. Haymitch could feel the room starting to swim around him, while Cinna seemed perfectly at ease. He wished desperately that he hadn't knocked back that final, provocative drink, but he had, and now he had to face the preturnaturally composed stylist with his own wits severely numbed. Desperately, he sucked at the water in his glass. And waited.<p>

Cinna waited too.

Finally, Haymitch drained the glass, slammed it on the counter, and met the other man's gaze full on.

"Might as well get it over with," he explained. "What is it, stylist?"

"I'm trying to figure you out," Cinna said calmly. "Winner of a particularly intense games, and in a spectacularly dramatic fashion. But 23 years later, you're still the lone victor of your district, and your kids die quickly and violently almost every time."

"There was a longer gap between Balsam's win and mine," Haymitch said defensively.

"Balsam Corland died less than two years after his victory," Cinna pointed out. "In all the other districts, getting the first Victor is the biggest hurdle; once a district has at least one real mentor, things get easier."

"What makes you think I'm a real mentor," Haymitch snapped back.

"I don't, actually," Cinna replied. "That's why I'm trying to figure you out. What drives Haymitch Abernathy of District 12? And what would convince him to give at least a modicum of a damn _-_ enough that the rest of us could do our jobs without knowing it was all being thrown away?" Haymitch growled at this, but Cinna pretended not to hear, moving closer to the Victor. "Is it money? Probably not. But if it were, there are ways to buy you out. Pride? That's more likely. There's a cachet to being the lone victor in your district, isn't there? You're a hero, but a tragic figure too."

"You think I like-"

"Shh." Cinna interrupted him, holding up an impossibly long finger to stop the flow of words. "Just listen. You don't have to accept anything now. But if there's any chance that you're not giving these kids their best because your screwed up ego can't stand to share the limelight, I'm going to make you an offer, and it's a simple one: I'll take you on. I'll be your personal stylist - before the games, after the games, anytime you need. Put yourself in my hands and it won't matter if District 12 wins the next _ten_ Hunger Games - you'll be the one they're looking at. You'll be the First. The Best. Even Finnick Odair won't be able to rival you for splash."

Haymitch knew that he shouldn't let the stylist get to him. But rage was stealing through his body, a throbbing fog of anger starting to blur his vision. He tried to breathe deeply. Speak evenly.

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Maybe I don't. But I do know that you've been were responsible for 46 kids who are now dead. And I know that you fall off platforms and don't show up to presentations and spend enough of your time getting shitfaced that it's clear your tributes stand no chance. Do you bet on them? Place side bets that your kids' time in the area will be measured in minutes - and then tell them to run into the fray? Because I wouldn't put it past you."

"What are you saying - I'm profiting on the deaths of innocent children? Then, I'd say we're equal, aren't we, _stylist_?"

"No, I'm saying you're a murderer of innocent children."

Haymitch laughed. He had, after all, been a Hunger Games mentor for 23 years.

"Of course I'm a murderer, you ignorant affectation! I'm a fucking _victor_! Don't you realize what happens in these games you delight in playing with us?"

Haymitch was furious. He was scared. He was still a little drunk. And so he continued.

"Yes, my kids die fast. They die fighting. They die desperately. They could never do it any differently - because the Capitol holds all the winning cards. You control our food. Our medicine. Our flow of goods and services. And yet, every year you insist on proving your power over Panem by demanding that we hand over our children to be slaughtered." He was aware that he was treading on dangerous territory here, but was far too angry to reign himself in now.

"I say _no_. I say _screw you_. My district's kids will not be tortured for your entertainment. And if that means their lives in the arena are short and violent, then so be it."

"So, to you, it's a form of rebellion."

Angry as he was, the word acted like a bucket of water on Haymitch, shocking him into near-sober wariness. It was a loaded term in the Districts, moreso in the Capitol. Now a complete stranger had just said it to him, and was watching to see how he would react.

His fingers scrabbled at the empty water glass, desperate for a drink, and more desperate to appear as if he weren't completely out of his depth in this moment.

What was this stylist trying to do? Align himself with Haymitch's interests to get the mentor back on "the right path"? Collect evidence to be used at some future date? Some other, more sinister plot?

His mind whirled faster than it had in years, trying to determine the safest course. Trying to feel his way through a conversation suddenly fraught with more than the usual number of landmines. But as he thought, he came to realize that his silence was an answer in itself. So he swallowed hard and raised his eyes to meet the stylist's.

Cinna nodded at what he saw there, and somberly reached out to refill the other man's glass.

"Haymitch, you know what I see every year?"

Haymitch shook his head, and Cinna continued. "I see 24 kids go into that arena, and only one come out. And which kids come out? The ones from districts 1, 2, and 4 - districts that most directly serve and honor the Capitol."

"Big surprise," Haymitch grumbled. "They're the districts that aren't starving to death. Districts where a chosen group of talented kids are given resources to train."

"Right," confirmed Cinna. "But there's also a message inherent in their continued victories: bow to the Capitol, save your children."

"We bow."

"Was that what you were doing, just now? Is that what you've been doing, all these years? Haymitch, you've been going about it all wrong. Your district isn't _meant_ to win. Your kids are _supposed_ to be cannon fodder. It's when you became a victor that you became a problem. When any of the lesser districts produce victors, they are _problems_. They're symbols that, despite everything, there are still pockets of strength in Panem. It says that some of you have fight left. It says that the Capitol will never dominate completely."

Cinna had been talking earnestly this whole time, but now he got right up in Haymitch's face.

"You want to fight, Haymitch, forget about fighting _against_ the Games - fight to _win_ them.


	5. Chapter 5

"So, what are we talking about, here?"

They were the first words that had been said in several minutes. The stylist, perhaps realizing he'd crossed a line, had retired to a far corner of the room and was waiting, shoulders tense, for the mentor to say something. And when he did, Haymitch noticed that Cinna's breath came whooshing out of him, as if he'd been holding it longer than the time the two of them had been standing there.

It wasn't a "no."

And it wasn't a call for the Peacekeepers.

"Not much," Cinna offered. "Visit sponsors. Talk up your tributes. Train your tributes, for that matter. Give them the best shot possible at getting out of the ring alive."

"Why District 12?"

"What?"

"You said you'd asked to be assigned to District 12. Why not 11? or 8? Eight's always spoiling for a fight."

"That's the point - no one expects a victor from 12. If one of your kids wins, it's unprecedented; if they don't...well, Portia and I are secure enough in our abilities that we knew we could make the Capitol pay attention. Care about the tributes of District 12. Even grieve when they're killed."

"In other words, you want me to extend their suffering to make them martyrs."

"There's no easy death in the arena, Haymitch. You know that."

Haymitch nodded, trying his best to stave off the memories of hundreds of kids' final moments. Some deaths were faster than others, but none of them were good - and none of them were easy, either.

"But there's another reason, now. I'd have pulled strings to get myself reassigned here if I hadn't already made that choice."

"Which is?"

"Your tribute - Katniss. You've been calling her number 46, but I think it's time to learn her name."

"You really think the girl can win?" Despite himself, Haymitch began to feel the rumblings of what he could only term as excitement in his stomach. There was something about that girl. She was stubborn, abrasive, independent - characteristics she shared with most of the victors, actually. _Maybe..._

"Probably not," Cinna admitted, and Haymitch felt his shoulders slump. "but-"

"-She's underfed, untrained, and probably has minimal if any survival skills at all," Haymitch said wearily. "In other words, the same problem we always have."

"...But _she's a fighter_," Cinna continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "And we can't count that out. If she's committed to fighting, her odds are automatically better than anyone who's just going to sit around and wait for one of the other tributes to find them. And this girl, Haymitch...she's all fight."

Haymitch snorted. "We both agree on that."

Cinna continued: "She fought the Capitol when she refused to let them take her sister. She and Peeta fought for your attention on the train," and Cinna smiled at a sudden memory. "Plus, she's working some kind of magic on the boy. There was a point right after the parade where she kissed him on the cheek and you could have lit the room with Peeta's face."

"Think the kid has feelings for her?"

Cinna nodded. "Wouldn't put it past him. Wouldn't blame him, either - based on what I've seen of District 12 in the past, Katniss Everdeen probably stands out."

Haymitch shrugged, uncomfortable with the realization that it was probably true, and he _still_ wouldn't have remembered the girl if he tried.

"But that's besides the point - the point is that Katniss kissed _him_. And she wasn't doing it to show affection. She's already fighting with every tool she has. If we can get her into the final eight...heck, if we can get her past the first _day_, even, she's going to be a beacon of hope for the underdogs out there."

Haymitch wondered whether the stylist had found a way to have the same conversation with Chaff - the words resonated with those the District 11 mentor had said in the bar earlier that night. And again, Haymitch found himself repeating his perspective on things.

"A little hope is a dangerous thing, Cinna," he said.

And Cinna smiled.

"Yes," he pointed out, "but so is fire. Haymitch - what have you got to lose?"

A hundred answers rushed to the front of the mentor's mind - his family, his friends, his home, his life - only to realize that the Capital had already destroyed each of those already. Refusing to play the game hadn't prevented any of that. If he were to be completely honest, his refusal to play by the rules had probably resulted in the death of his immediate family's.

So maybe, it was time to try beating the gamemakers on their own turf.

Cinna saw the decision settle into Haymitch's face, and a wide smile broke out on his own. He grasped the mentor's hand and shook it heartily.

"Welcome to the District Twelve team, Haymitch," he said.

His clear head, combined with the faint poundings of a near-hangover, made Haymitch realize that while he might not have remembered the first time he saw the girl on fire, he would always remember the moment when he decided not to write her off entirely.


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N: In writing it, I felt like the ending of the last chapter "landed" well, but also that it could read as the conclusion of the tale, which it's not. How to solve that, without an author's note explaining it? Why, two updates in one day, of course!_**

**_(No, this isn't going to be a habit… but I _have_ pushed over the part of the story that was the most problematic for me, and I hope updates will come more quickly in the future). Now, on with the show!_**

**_OK. Maybe not yet. I just wanted to add a quick "thank you" to everyone who has reviewed or added this story to their alerts & favorites - it's so nice to know that people are reading and enjoying it! And the kind words _do _serve as excellent motivation when the going gets tough. So, thank you, all._**

**_(And now, really - it's story-time!)_**

* * *

><p>There hadn't been much to say after that.<p>

The two men, finally in agreement about their intentions, headed back into the hallway to invite the women to complete their strategy session. They found only Portia there, slumping against an overstuffed velvet chair and fighting to stay awake. Effie, she informed them, had left over an hour ago, trailing a litany of complaints - the rudeness at excluding her from the strategy session and their lack of consideration with regards to her need for beauty sleep being only two of many - behind her.

The three considered reconvening without her - Effie had her uses, but strategy wasn't one of them - until Haymitch, too, found his eyes growing heavy.

"Cinna, this is no good," he finally said, after too many sentences had been cut short by mammoth yawns. "Tomorrow, I'll just tell the two of them to focus on basic survival skills - fires, plants, knots. We're too bushed to decide more than that now. We can hammer the rest out after breakfast, OK?" Next to him, Portia nodded in agreement. And, after a deep sigh, Cinna nodded, too.

"Oh, wait," Cinna said. "They should be..._friendly_...with each other while training." The other two stared at the young man dumbly. Tributes, except the Careers, historically flew solo during the pre-Games process. To have two being outright friendly with one another was unheard of. And unlikely. The kids would never be able to get past the idea that they were slated to kill each other within the week.

And Cinna stared back. "Earlier, we'd discussed positioning Katniss as being 'fiercely protective.' I'd like to start now."

"She can only appear protective if Peeta seems vulnerable," Portia objected. "You're planning to use my tribute as a crutch."

"More like an accessory," Haymitch mumbled, amusing only himself and earning glares from both stylists before they ignored him entirely.

"Peeta's already made _himself_ seem vulnerable," Cinna pointed out. "He was crying as they boarded the tribute train, for goodness' sake. It's entirely possible he's got some sort of strategy already in place."

"Or maybe he was a 16-year-old boy who'd just said what was probably a final goodbye to his family!" Portia exclaimed. "We're his team. We're in his corner. We can't penalize him for showing emotions just because it fits with the other tribute's narrative."

The two stylists glared at each other, before Portia turned away.

"Haymitch?" she asked.

Which is how it was supposed to be. The stylists and escorts provided perspective on strategy, but the ultimate decision was the mentor's. His.

Not for the first time, Haymitch found himself wondering how districts with more competitive tributes decided who might live and who would certainly die. Portia was right - the kid didn't need any help appearing vulnerable. But if they wanted to make the girl into anything at all, they needed to take every chance they could get.

Not that appearing to be friendly would necessarily make either of them appear to be weak. Or that standing side by side at a training station was a final strategy by any stretch of the imagination. But it was the start of a path, of a way of thinking, which would ultimately prioritize the needs of the girl over those of the boy.

So he spared a moment to give Number 47 a silent apology - none of the previous tributes had ever volunteered to clean up his vomit - before announcing his decision: "The tributes train together."


End file.
